


A Desperate, Painful Kind of Love

by gaylock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assassin Mary Morstan, BAMF John Watson, Coma Sherlock, F/M, Jim Moriarty and bombs, John's baby is compromised, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary is a liar, Mycroft is overprotective, POV John Watson, sherlock is in a coma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:46:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John watches Sherlock in the hospital room as his heart gives out again and again, and mourns the loss of his best friend. He knows it's asking too much but - one more miracle, Sherlock. Just one more. Please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A Re-vamped version of the already posted A Desperate, Painful Kind of Love. This is the edited and finalized version of the story.

Living in a time when the world was chest deep in one of the worst wars it had ever seen, Doctor John Watson had lost a few men.  

Not many, being the best of a large group of nurses and doctors, but on occasion, especially working behind enemy lines, putting themselves directly into danger. John would return from the lines with the tags of a dead soldier to send back to his family. How close they'd been or how well he'd known them never mattered, the tags were always heavy in his hand, heavier still when he was given the abilities to fight for his country, to save them, and still couldn't see every man back home.  

It happened. Not everyone was going to make it back, they told you that when you lined up, and kept telling you that every day from dawn to dusk while you learned to handle a rifle and point it at the face of the enemy, to throw a grenade into an unsuspecting group, to crawl under barbed-wire with bombs going off overhead, to patch up a fellow comrade long enough to carry him to safety by the strength of your back alone if you had to. They told you that while they taught you how to make a tourniquet, how to do surgery in under ten minutes, how to break bones and reset them.   

But it was alright, because each and every soldier was fighting for his wife, his children and his country, and if he had to lay down his life, then he would, because their lives and their freedom were worth it.  

War had changed a bit, since ten or so years ago. It was impossible not to notice. Men and women fought alongside machines now- sometimes, it was just the machines.  Some things about war, though, hadn't changed. A battle field was still a battle field, whether it was in a remote part of Iraq or a dessert in Afghanistan. A soldier still had to be fit and healthy up to regulations, still had to have the heart.

  Families still saw off their loved ones. Soldiers still wrote home. Guns still fired bullets. People still died.

  Oh yes, even with all the technology- all the drones, wireless signals and "innovations", even with the government taking charge in new ways, making new alliances- that was still one thing that hadn't changed. That wouldn't.  

 _Death_.

  Casualties of war. Good or bad, troops or civilians. People died. It could be between two countries or two men, but at the end of the day, when the tallies were counted up to become a figure written in a history book, those people were husbands, wives, sons, daughters . . .  

They were friends.  

It never got any easier, and John thanked God for that, because the day that the death of a fellow man didn't lose him some sleep at night was one he prayed he'd never see.  

As it was, today wasn't that day.

  It was too white in here. The room had a feeling of sterility, of bleakness, it got right under his skin. Everything was too bright, to spacious, and too quiet.  

It made the sounds of the machines working to keep a man breathing and his heart beating almost deafening.  

John sighed from the chair he sat in, running his hands over his face. He wasn't going to pretend that he and Sherlock always got along. On the good days he could say they were friends, best friends, they could go out for a drink, a case, laugh and joke and enjoy each other's company. They would solve cases without a hitch. And then there were the worst days, when their personalities and decisions clashed, when joking and teasing turned to insults and John had to remind himself to be the better man, or at the very least keep himself from decking Sherlock out the window.

  John didn't think he was better. They were two men born in different situations, raised in different ways. Sherlock was intelligent, too smart for his own good. He never had friends, and his family were fairly oblivious. But they cared about him. John was a poor, lonely kid with an alcoholic mother and an abusive dead father. His family was distant, but he had friends; tons of them. Sherlock could be too full of himself, John could be too righteous, and sometimes it took a serious threat looming over London to even get them in the same room.

  But despite their differences, Sherlock Holmes is a good man. He's proven it before, and lying here on a hospital bed, bruised, bloody and broken, he's proven it again.  

Alive, but just barely, and nothing guaranteed that he'd stay that way


	2. Chapter 2

The past couple of days washed over him like London's harsh winter rains. The memories were cold, bitter and unwelcome, seeping deep into his muscles, masking the ache just enough for him to focus on it fully. His shoulder protested, his hands shook, and his leg hurt like hell.   

 

"Sherlock?!"

 

  There was no answer.  

 

  
**That bastard had turned off his phone.**  

 

 He shouldn't have expected any less. It was haughty, impulsive, and even if Sherlock only scoffed at the word, noble. John had to turn around, to run towards where Sherlock last checked in and stop him from being a hero. He'd be damned if Sherlock was going to do this. And if he was, then there was no way in hell he was doing it alone.

 

  There was no room for arguing, especially with someone so stubborn. Sherlock may love the sound of his own voice, but when the game was afoot and their lives were at risk, Sherlock didn't just say things to say them. And even if John didn't know the full extent of the situation, he didn't need to be a genius to hear the panic in Sherlock's voice, and know that the result would be a hell of a lot worse if he wasn't doing this. But that didn't mean John wasn't going to be right there beside him. It was going to be okay, John would be okay.

 

  He was nearly there, but was too late. The explosion that followed rocked the ground, shaking cars and breaking windows, knocking people off their very feet and caused the foundations to tremble.

 

  For a moment, there was a pause; like the entirety of the city had to ask itself if that had really just happened. John could feel the shock of it too, and then he was running, his mask of stoicism slipping, a speechless fear moving him. Tired, straining, and somewhat desperately, he was running to Sherlock, hoping against hope that there would still be a man to find. That once again, Sherlock's genius found a loophole in another no-win situation and managed to beat the odds.   

 

The closer he got, the worse it got. John was panting by the time he made it to Richmond Avenue, any faith rapidly dwindling along with the sweat threatening to obscure his vision. He was tired, no doubt. Fighting Moriarty's men, then running at a breakneck speed to his friend was taking its toll.

 

  He didn't think he could run any faster if terrorists were on his heels, and his lungs burned with the effort, his leg and shoulder screamed in pain, but he didn't stop, not until he had to, when the destruction went from minor and superficial to blood and broken glass everywhere, the surrounding area not much more than bowed structures and debris. Dust filled the air, but a few yards away John could see Mycroft. The man had flown off in his helicopter the second the explosion sounded, and was helping dig through what had been a mid-construction apartment building.

 

  It was a giant pile of concrete, plaster and brick. Metal rods stuck out at random like quills on a porcupine and shards of glass caught the light as the dust thinned. John would have been overwhelmed, taking in the horror of it all, if he wasn't so narrowly focused on one aspect: Sherlock.   

 

The men were hefting away the larger pieces, moving thick slabs and large handfuls of remains while Mycroft yelled to Sherlock, shoveling the rubble in no real direction, desperately trying to find a sign as to where Sherlock was buried, a point where they could concentrate their energy.  

 

John went forward, his gun dropping to the ground as he picked up the nearest chunk of building and tossed is away. He did it again, and again, and again, like working the assembly line, waiting for a glimpse of pale skin or dark curls to appear from under the wreckage.   Each piece felt heavier than the last, wearing down his skin, blood starting to splotch the concrete from his fingers as he tossed it away. He heard someone call in agents and medics, heard Mycroft and Gregson grunt in effort as they cleared the wreckage, but he still didn't hear Sherlock. Please, let him be okay.   

 

It didn't take as long as he thought, and while that was one, merciful point in their favour, it was where the favours stopped.

 

  There was a shout of, "John!" from Mycroft and John swerved his head to see a man lift Sherlock out of the remains and lay him out on the ground.  

 

Mycroft was still calling out to Sherlock, and _Sherlock still wasn't answering_.  

 

It was gruesome, and John shook his head. Those thoughts had no place here, not right now. He had to keep his head in the here and now. That was what would give Sherlock the best chance, not John assuming he was already gone. But man, was that hard. He rushed forwards and knelt by Sherlock's side, determined to bring life back into those lifeless grey eyes if it was the last thing he did. And he struggled when he felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him away. No, no, he wouldn't leave, not Sherlock, he needed him, he could help him!

 

  He stared at curls soaked with blood as men and women placed his friends limp body into a medical vehicle and drove away.  Everyone had been on edge, the tension in the room replacing the air. No one was able to reach Sherlock, to check his vitals, to see if he was okay, until the doctors, the professionals were done, and every second that ticked by had the tension weigh down that much more on John's chest.  

 

The medical staff swarmed Sherlock and John was reluctant to get out of the way, because Sherlock, dear God, the man was covered in freshly formed bruises and cuts littered every inch of him. There were burns where John had seen the blackened cloth of his ruined suit, running along indefinite patterns along his best friends body.   

 

The doctors shoved past him with machines for finding a pulse and checking his heart and looking for internal damage. They were ushered out, because there wasn't any point in them being there, they weren't doing any good, and they were in the way. Except for him, he got to stay; he was a doctor.  


	3. Chapter 3

The man had multiple contusions and lacerations. He had six broken ribs, a leg broken in four different places, a broken collar bone and dislocation of both shoulders. Then he had a fractured skull- severe head trauma, extensive tissue damage, his left wrist was fractured and the entirety of his right hand, which had been uncovered when they found him, was so badly burned and the bones damaged that the doctors weren't sure they could save it.  

 

And for two days the medical staff battled internal bleeding, possible organ failure, a collapsed lung, and his heart had stopped twice.

 

  When the doctor read off every single injury Sherlock had obtained and was being treated for with an attitude so grave that John couldn't get the severity of the damage being ticked-off some list on a clipboard out of his head, it was no surprise when the doctor finished with, "He might not wake up." It wasn't going to be okay.   

 

  
**Sherlock Holmes might not wake up.**  

 

There was nothing he could have done. That's what Mrs. Hudson had told him yesterday, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder while John sat next to Sherlock's bedside circled in wires and tubes.

 

  It was a work of genius only Sherlock Holmes could have pulled off. Sherlock had contained the blast because there wasn't enough time to prevent it.   

 

He was a good man, and a good man put his life on the line for millions of people.

 

  Everyone was dealing with it in their own way. Lestrade hardly left the shooting arena; quickly catching up to him in the number of targets rendered useless, and Mary was unusually quiet, sitting by herself. Mycroft buried himself in work, revisiting a project Sherlock had worked on months ago, and John spent all of his time here, thinking too much or not thinking much at all. He knew he couldn't blame himself, but that didn't stop him from doing so.  

 

With what little here on Earth that could help Sherlock nearly exhausted, maybe his chances lay beyond the stars John had spent so much of his childhood gazing up at, diligently waiting for one to streak past so he could make a wish on it.  

 

John was a little too old for wishes now, and hope was a fickle thing to hold on to, but there wasn't anything else he could do. He needed a miracle.   

 

So he'd sit here, in a chair next to Sherlock's bedside, minutes bleeding into hours, and he would hope. He'd look at the cuts, bandages, and bruises swelling Sherlock's face and wish. He'd wring his hands, not for the first time noting there wasn't a scratch on them, and cringe in guilt. He'd wait, restless with the guilt, drowning in the sounds of machines and the blinding white of the room and the irritating smell of sterility, and hope that Sherlock would survive this. A miracle.   

 

If Sherlock was conscious, he would have told John to go do something patriotically productive from day one. But he wasn't conscious, and John just couldn't. He couldn't just leave, not now. Not ever.  


	4. Chapter 4

Blue eyes darkened by anguish turned to the man on the bed.  
  


_Sherlock._

  
  Pulling himself together after the explosion that hushed a voice he might never hear again was akin to forcing together mismatched puzzle pieces. He had been experiencing too much at once and it was overwhelming to the point of shock.  

He closed his eyes against the internal onslaught, though the reality of this situation was not something to be ignored simply because he couldn't handle the pain. He opened them again and the hospital room was before him as always, the sight no less dismal.   Looking at Sherlock's form was difficult to do, yet his gaze never lingered away for long. The man was broken, so very broken, teetering on the brink of death, a place so far and dark that none could reach him to pull him back to safety. John bowed his head, hands gripped together to keep them from crushing something under his despair.

  He kept his eyes on the haggard rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, one of the many machines in the room forcing his lungs to work so that he may survive. John had barely left this room in the past three days. The adjoining room could have contained the secrets to the universe and in the days he'd been here, he would never have known. Only once, early on, had he left . . . when the silence became rope around his neck and the sight of Sherlock so helpless started pulling it tight.  

The pull between the need to stay and the urge to leave threatened to rip him in two, but desolation and powerlessness had become close companions and walking away from Sherlock's bedside hadn't offered the reprieve he'd sought. He hadn't made it three yards, emotions plaguing every nerve ending down his very core, before turning back, weaving around the doctors and nurses crowding the hospital's hallway.

  Mary didn't need him, not like Sherlock did. She was fine, she was at home. With the baby. And John knew that he should want to be there with her; want to have her and his baby comfort him through this. But he couldn't, just couldn't, find it in himself to care. Not right now, not when all he could see when he closed his eyes was Sherlock's smiling face. Not when all he could hear at night were those three little words; the last words Sherlock had spoken to him. The last words he may ever speak. No, he loved Mary, and their child, he did. But Sherlock? Sherlock was his heart, his soul. His life. And he'd be damned if he was going to leave. And damn if he was going to let Sherlock leave. Not this time, not again. He would make this okay.

  A lump formed suddenly in his throat, even though he's hardly spoken in days. John didn't need to close his eyes to remember what he'd seen when he walked back into the room. Less than ten minutes had to have passed from when he left to when he'd returned and it was a cruel display of the fragile nature of the human life as he was nearly barreled over by too many doctors trying to fill too small a space, desperately checking vitals and shouting over a loud, endless beep- a monotone, taciturn noise that screamed Sherlock's heart had stopped.

  It was the second time his heart had given out, the first being during a surgery when the doctors had everything under control and it was efficiently dealt with, but now . . . now it was disorder, and any control was quickly bleeding into that horrible, warning drone. Medical staff were rushing around the room, grabbing equipment and moving themselves accordingly and John had to adjust himself appropriately lest he knock over the one person who might end up saving Sherlock's life, watching them inject different medicines, and use alternative techniques, and ultimately attempt to shock the life back into him.  

The scene unfolded much like shaking a glass jar full of flies.

  In those horrible, confused moments, John truly thought he was going to watch Sherlock die. With the doctors applying very bit of knowledge and experience they had into reviving him, waiting with waning, feigned calm for some sign that Sherlock wasn't completely gone, John felt the cold, sluggish ice that had filled his veins since Sherlock had last spoken to him over a phone melt away to something new.  
  


  It was raw, unbridled anger.   

  
John thought he was going to watch Sherlock die, and he hated him for it. This pure, heated anger had come to him once before, when he had thought Sherlock was dead, but then it turned out he wasn't, and it was all too much. It was an emotion that John found comfort in, because finally he was feeling something, something real, something other than pain. Yes, holding onto this anger, it warmed his numb body and pulled together his fleeting thoughts and focused the spiraling pool his errant emotions had become.  

Who easier to be angry at than Sherlock Holmes? And in that instant, John had never hated someone so much

.  How dare he? How dare Sherlock Holmes -a man who boasts so loudly about his skill and intelligence, who could never leave well enough alone, who purposefully created challenges just so he could rise to the occasion . . .    
  


_**How dare he lie there and simply give up?** _


	5. Chapter 5

With men and women running around, edging closer to frantic with every motion, for a moment, he shut them out.

 

It was too long, and the medical staff went from desperately trying to illicit a response from Sherlock's still heart to slowly, steadily accepting defeat- the fire in them to keep a man alive snuffed out by the raw truth of the matter that they had failed.

 

John would have none of it.

 

He hated that he hadn't died in the war. He hated that of all people, Sherlock had been his salvation. He hated that his choices for a veterans life had lead him to a man named Sherlock Holmes. He hated that said man had slipped so effortlessly behind his defenses, and he hated himself for letting Sherlock in at all.

 

Most of all, John hated that he'd gone and fallen in love him.

 

John poured everything he had into his thoughts, asking one last thing. Making a final wish. It was anger and fear and hope and love. It was the first time they'd met and the last time they'd spoken. It came from a place that burned bright enough to blind, but John took it and channeled it and gave it all to Sherlock, asked for one more miracle. Just one more. 

 

The machines monitoring Sherlock's vitals began beeping furiously and the staff that were a good minute away from giving up all hope jumped back into action, calling out with renewed energy and looking at the man who'd been in Death's grasp not a second before with astonished expressions.

 

Somehow, they were surely thinking, Sherlock Holmes had come back- a miracle, it may be called. No one noticed the once-soldier leaning against a wall in the room, resting his weight against its flat surface to keep his legs from giving out, the sweat rolling down his brow and heaviness in his limbs outweighed by sheer relief.

 

It was so small a victory, but John had taken it, refusing to leave Sherlock's side should his damaged heart fail again.

 

It hadn't happened . . . but then again, neither had anything else. 

 

A wetness at the corner of his eye turned into a flood engulfing his eyes, rivers down his cheeks. 

 

Sherlock didn't deserve his anger, but Moriarty did. That despicable bastard deserved to die. 

 

Every man and woman capable was searching for him, any and all hints to his whereabouts gone through with a fine, razor-toothed comb, no rock being left unturned. There would be no sleep, no wavering. Resources would be used to their limits and beyond until he was found. Only then, with him physically in their hands, would they consider rest. 

 

They were working hard, John knew, but he had little faith in their chances. Which was why, after five days and one text message later, he came to a decision. Five days of watching a significant part of his life spin rapidly out of his control, of wading in a fathomless sea of torrid sentiment, and one text message from the source of his pain. 

 

It should have come to him sooner. Many things should have, but now that he had this one, simple thought- composed just enough to be more than feeling- turning around in his mind and bristling along his fingers, did John know what to do. 

 

Moriarty. 

 

John would kill him for what he'd done to Sherlock. 

 

As such, he had spent enough time here. He was afraid to leave, but determined to go. Sherlock would be alright without him for a few hours. John wasn't sure if the same thing went for him, but he needed to do something. 

 

Sherlock's hand was cool as he brought it into his own and it felt as if a bullet sunk into his chest. Sherlock should never be cold. He should be warm. Warm and exasperating and a constant in life- all things that were quite impossible now.

 

John suppressed the swift wave of anger, saving it for better use. He stood, giving Sherlock's limp hand a gentle squeeze before placing it back by his side. This was not good-bye, but it was bitter-sweet and John hoped that silently promising to return would be met with a silent agreement from Sherlock that he would still be here when he came back.

 

He was struck with an old memory. Of listening to stories where good always triumphed over evil and a kiss could setback death. It was childhood fancy, but, oh, how he wanted it. He would give Sherlock a proper kiss, but there were tubes feeding him air blocking the way, entombing him, so John settled for placing one against his brow.

 

Nothing happened, of course. John had expected as much, and at this point, he was wasting time. But it still hurt. While he couldn't make Sherlock wake up, one thing he could ensure was that Moriarty would no longer be able to take away anything else.

 

Ever again.

 

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

 

It was dark underground. Cool and silent with a certain feeling of privacy one such as he enjoyed. His base of operations, his hiding abode, the birthplace of his new age- it was where James Moriarty basked in his victory.

 

There were many things to be pleased about, and lips twisted into a cruel smile beneath his dark eyes. He had done it. He had outsmarted the smartest man on Earth; Sherlock Holmes. 

 

Moriarty had watched as they all walked straight into his trap. And their choices came with the cost of Sherlock, and the memory of it turned his smile into a grin. Glee bubbled in his stomach, pure and simple. A key piece had been taken out of the game, and all he had to do was sit back and wait for the opportunity to strike again. The Angels were falling. And falling is just like flying; only with a more permanent destination. 

 

Laughter tickled the back of his throat; it was a most fortunate turn of events! All that was needed now was time, and Moriarty was a patient man. He would wait here, in this damp, cool lair of his own design as he rebuilt his machines and regrouped his men. Hidden, but forever a lurking company in the back of his enemies minds he would be, and when he saw his chance, he would attack with an even greater power than before, unrelenting until those who dared stand in his way had no choice but to yield.

 

The echoing sounds of his machines working was a song, sweetly reverberating off the dank, brick walls to the melody of metal against metal, sparking and grinding, and Jim leant back in his chair, taking in the assurance of a well-improved future.

 

But something was wrong. Sitting up immediately, his eyes went to a console on his right, looking at the monitor and seeing his guards still dutifully at their stations. He turned away, satisfied that nothing was the matter, until a movement caught his eye. Unfolding on the screen of his console, was a fight. Well, more accurately a slaughter. 

 

He watched as John Watson single handedly took out each and every one of his heavily armed men, armed with nothing but his gun. 

 

And like a domino effect, every monitor shut off, the sounds of his machines stopping abruptly. The lights went out. The power line had been cut. 

 

He rose from his seat, stance betraying nothing but mild curiosity. But under the facade, inside his level head, James Moriarty was laughing. 

 

He observed the man leisurely walking to him from across the room. The man stopped, and there was silence.

 

"Quite the show," Jim said gleefully, "very theatrical."

 

The man said nothing, just stood there silently, watching him. 

 

"So, how are you, Doctor? Feeling a bit down? Bored? No cases right now, are there? How terribly depressing." His eyes gleamed and he waited for a reaction. 

 

Still, nothing. 

 

"That's why I messaged you; decided to put you out of your misery. Wanted to see if you were smart enough to stay away, or brave enough to come. And here you are. But you always were incredibly stupid. I'm not sure how Sherlock put up with you." Moriarty smirked before continuing. "I am impressed you made it this far, my men are the best. But he kept you well trained, didn't he? His faithful guard dog. His little pet. Always there to save him, always coming to his defence. And what did he do for you? Why, he went and got himself killed anyways! Twice. An nearly a third. Tsk tsk. What a naughty boy."

 

The man hissed. Jim laughed. 

 

"Oh, how adorable! Still coming to his rescue, even while he's on his death bed. But who knows; maybe he'll wake up. "Just one more miracle, Sherlock", "just don't be dead, Sherlock". Really, quite touching, I must say."

 

"You're a bastard, you know that? A crazy, fucking bastard." Jim just laughed some more. 

 

"Haven't you realised yet, Doctor? Haven't you come to the obvious conclusion? Oh, of course not. Sherlock had, but of course, you're not him. Not a genius. Could barely keep up with him. But I'll put you out of your misery once again; I'll tell you. Everything around you, everyone around you, is a sham. You surround yourself with fakers and liars. Sherlock was a fake; he said so himself. "It's a trick, John. Just a magic trick." He knew what he was, and what he could never be. But he tried, and he nearly convinced himself. He definitely had all of you fooled." He laughed and grinned at John. 

 

"Your wife was a liar; she kills people for a living. She nearly killed Sherlock. Now where is she? MIA? Lost in action? No, of course not! Why, she's right here, working for me like she always has been."

 

The man froze. "What are you talking about? Mary isn't here, she's at home, watching the baby."

 

Moriarty turned, and gestured with his left hand. "No she's not! Mary, why don't you be a dear, and come say hello to your lovely husband." 

 

Mary stepped into the dim light, her gun arm extended and a pistol in her hand. "Hello, John."

 

John choked and stumbled back in shock. "Mary? I don't...where's my baby?" She laughed. 

 

"Your baby? Even after all this, you're still so trusting. God, you sicken me. Of course it isn't your baby. Do you think I'd bear your children? It's his. And so am I." 

 

"No." John's voice was quiet and filled with sadness. 

 

Mary's voice wasn't. "Oh yes. And Sherlock knew, or at least he suspected. But he wasn't sure, couldn't tell you and ruin everything, not when he'd just gotten you back. God, he was almost as pathetic as you."

 

"No." He said again, this time louder and with more anger. 

 

Moriarty sighed and snapped his fingers. This was beginning to bore him. Mary nodded and cocked her gun. "Goodbye, John." But before she could shoot, her legs collapsed underneath her, and the gun dropped from her hand. Blood pooled in a puddle under her fallen body. 

 

Moriarty froze, his fingers still poised in the air. How? 

 

John had moved so quickly, his army training kicking in, that it had been nearly invisible. The knife had left his hands and was now lodged in his wife's -ex wife's- throat. 

 

He stared at her motionless body for a second, his face blank but his eyes full of sadness and regret, before picking up her fallen gun and turning to face Moriarty. Jim swallowed. 

John had two weapons, fully loaded, pointing at his head. And what did he have? Nothing. 

 

For once, he was powerless.

 

"I was rather looking forwards to killing you with my own gun. I may have kept the bullet afterwards, put it in a glass case or something. Framed it possibly." John spoke slowly and deliberately, his gaze never leaving Jim's face. 

 

"But, on account of recent events, I think it may be more appropriate to shoot you with your own gun. Certainly sounds more dramatic, don't you think?" Moriarty's mask never faltered, but he could feel the hatred in John's gaze from ten feet away. 

 

"I'm impressed, John. I didn't think you would be able to kill your own wife, the mother of your child. Mary hadn't thought so either."

 

"She wasn't the mother of my child; she was the mother of yours. I may not have been able to, if she hadn't told me that she had bared your baby. But then again, maybe I still would have; we'll never know." John shrugged casually, guns moving slightly with the movement. 

 

"Touché." Moriarty studied his opponents face, before standing up slowly and stepping forwards. "You know, John," he said conversationally, as if there weren't two fully loaded guns pointed at his head. "Killing me won't bring him back. It's too late for that -you'd need a miracle. And I'm sorry, really I am, but well. It seems I'm all fresh out of those." He laughed manically, taking another step towards John. 

 

John wasn't phased. His mask held, and his arms were steady as he looked at Moriarty, like he was nothing. Like he was completely harmless. And for the first time in a very long time, James Moriarty felt fear. 

 

"Well, that's too bad." He responded, just as conversationally. He also took a step forwards, before continuing. "I was going to say, we could always make a trade. Your life for his. But since you're all out, and, as you say, he's a goner anyways; well, I don't really feel like bargaining." John took another step forwards, dropping his left arm, the one with his own gun in it. He positioned Mary's pistol so it was directly between Moriarty's eyes. 

 

"And sure, miracles are good and all, but boy, are they expensive. It's a good thing I don't need one to kill you, isn't it?" Moriarty leapt forwards suddenly, reaching for the gun in his left hand, but John had him on the ground in under three seconds, the pistol resting on his forehead. 

 

"How does it feel, to be outsmarted by the faithful guard dog?"

 

And Moriarty's mask fell away, as he realized that despite his power, his money, his airs, he wasn't invincible. That his intelligence didn't make him immortal. That he was going to die. For the first time in years, he had no one to hide behind, nothing to stand on. His power had been severed when the lights had gone out, and now he was going to die. At the hands of the biggest Angel of all. 

 

The game, he thought, is over. 

 

He smiled weakly up at John. "Catch you later."

 

He watched John's eyes sparkle in understanding, a grim smile replace his previously blank mask. "No you won't." John said quietly, before pulling the trigger. 


	6. The End

John stood in the doorway of the too white hospital room and closed his eyes. He raised both hands, and when his eyelids fluttered open, he took in the tremor-less hands, and sighed. 

Moriarty was gone. Mary was gone. And Sherlock? Sherlock was gone too.

Each day was marked another twenty-four hours in which there were no signs that Sherlock Holmes would wake up. There was no twitching, no mumbling- not even any movement behind his eyelids. He couldn't breathe on his own and every heart-beat was watched like it was anticipated to be his last.

  John was beginning to wonder if he was sitting next to a person, or what was left of his body.   The possibility was cruel enough to destroy him, and John now keenly understood religion. It would be a wonderful thing, if some higher power was listening, that John could beg for Sherlock's life. To put his hands together and pray, perhaps offer something in return for his prayer granted.

  But Sherlock's drama and wit and laughter would not be given back by him silently asking for hours on end.   John hoped there was something more out there, a greater being not bound by the laws of Earth. A being John cursed and screamed at 'til his throat burned and he had no words left. A being he yelled to about the injustice of it all and dammit why, that of all the people on the planet, himself included, why was Sherlock the one broken. Because that's what he was; broken. And despite desperately wishing otherwise, sometimes broken things can't be fixed.

The heart monitor beeped its last beep on **Tuesday** **15/07/16**. And so that is what John had tattooed onto his shoulder, right below his scar and directly above his heart. Because there really was no other possible place; not when Sherlock had ruled both his heart and his mind by saving him from the past.   John stands by the black gravestone and thinks about how twelve long years ago, he had left a war, only to jump straight into another. He thinks about how different both were from the battle he faces now, and how little either had prepared him. And then he thinks about how the injuries you sustain don't hurt any less just because you can't see them; psychosomatic or not, emotional or not, they cripple you. He uses a cane now, for the first time in four, almost five years.   And he thinks about how the last time he had to use a cane, it was for this exact reason. It's then that he realizes something: the solar system doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, because his world has always revolved around something so much larger than the sun; Sherlock.   Three Continents Watson has become Three Wars Watson, and John laughs bitterly.

It seems that it doesn't matter what you do, doesn't matter what you sacrifice;  

All anybody ever is, is a casualty of war.  


End file.
